Chapter 35 — Mystery of Origin (Part II)

　　Qiwú sat cross-legged, Ruoshui’s head resting in his lap. He tended her wounds and staunched her bleeding, and tenderly covered her eyes—even though she was still fast asleep and unaware.

　　Around them lay the dead spider’s torn limbs and body, a grisly sight.

　　After disposing of the spider, the vine-demon focused on Ruoshui again. It couldn’t enter the ward, so it paced the outside, circling and pressing until the ward was hemmed in a secure ring. Inside, blackness swallowed all; one could not see one’s hand before one’s face.

　　“What do we do now?” the snake-girl asked.

　　“Wait,” Qiwú answered. There was nothing else. They couldn’t leave the ward; they had to hunker down and hope for help—hope someone wandering by would notice the absence of Qiwú and come.

　　Qiwú secretly wished Gǔyì might visit Gūwù Peak and discover something amiss and come to their aid.

　　“If we just sit here, we won’t last long,” the snake-girl said. “My venom can excite the condemned into seeming alive, but after a while their organs fail and they die. It’s hopeless medicine.”

　　“How much time do I have?” Qiwú’s voice betrayed no emotion; the darkness hid his face.

　　“Maybe a day or two, at most five.”

　　Qiwú produced a luminous pearl and placed it above them, giving faint light.

　　He smoothed Ruoshui’s tangled hair and watched her pale face. He had always been a solitary star, a bringer of misfortune to kin and friends; he had trained himself to sever attachments and embrace loneliness. Yet Ruoshui’s arrival had brought warmth he hadn’t felt in ages. As existence neared its edge, a grief at parting filled him.

　　He looked at her with greed, reluctant to let go. To the snake-girl he said, “I will teach you the method of fasting to sustain yourself. You must care for her—stay within the ward until someone rescues you.” Everyone knew Qiwú preferred solitude. If he stayed absent long, those who knew him would notice.

　　He instructed the snake-girl in meditative fasting. She listened earnestly—the only chance to survive was to learn to live off little. Day after day she practiced. Whenever hope glimmered, she clung to it.

　　Ruoshui slept on; three days passed. Qiwú fed her true qi daily and tended her wounds. She improved physically, though she did not awaken. He knew her life was no longer in immediate danger and let her sleep.

　　Having taught some techniques, he became half a master to the snake-girl. She, who had long lived by grudges and favors, didn’t know how to address him properly and, out of deference and practicality, called him “master.” After all, he would not live long now—no worth in taking offense.

　　By the fourth day, Qiwú had grown weary. He used the edge of his sword to tear off his sleeve and slit his finger, writing, stroke by bloodied stroke, a divorce-like letter in his own blood.

　　He handed the blood-written note to the snake-girl. “I have little time left. When you escape, give this to her.”

　　The snake-girl accepted it solemnly. “I will.”

　　“I have little time. If the lady has not learned fasting and becomes hungry, let her eat my flesh to fill her belly,” Qiwú said.

　　“To have such a husband—truly enviable. If one day I escape, I shall find a husband like you,” the snake-girl teased, half serious, unable to bring herself yet to call the young Ruoshui “madam.”

　　Qiwú let out a short laugh.

　　“You look down on me—think I’m dreaming too much?” the snake-girl said, offended.

　　Qiwú said nothing; later she would understand how achingly meaningful that laugh had been. Long after, the snake-girl would grasp that Ruoshui’s fate with such a husband was nothing short of calamity.

　　Now, calmer, the snake-girl sensed deeper puzzles.

　　“Master, may I ask—who is this madam?” the snake-girl queried.

　　Qiwú eyed her warily. He had considered that she might betray Ruoshui; yet they had no choice but to trust each other for now.

　　The snake-girl, reading his mind, hurried to assure him: “How could I be ungrateful? I only mean she’s hard to fathom.” She knelt beside Ruoshui, examined her closely, and added, “Look—her blood increases cultivation. The poison-spider bit her and she didn’t get poisoned. She’s not eating or drinking and has slept four days. If this secret were known, that prize would tempt every monster and mortal.”

　　Qiwú looked at the sleeping Ruoshui. “I saved her on the Weak Water shore years ago. She remembered nothing. I thought she was ordinary.”

　　“What? You rescued her on the Weak Water? When?” the snake-girl asked with surprise. Could she really be that woman?

　　“About four years ago,” he replied.

　　“Was it after a storm?” the snake-girl asked eagerly.

　　“How did you know?” Qiwú asked.

　　She let out a breath and asked, “Did you notice a coffin in the cave?”

　　Qiwú indicated with his eyes—when the vines first dragged him in, Ruoshui had been lying in that coffin.

　　“That coffin wasn’t always here. It was submerged under the water. Inside it lay a woman. Four years ago a violent storm upheaved the river; the coffin washed out and somehow the vines dragged it into the cave. But the coffin was already open—the woman inside was gone.”

　　A cold panic rose in Qiwú—this explained why a new person had appeared with no disappearance reported: the coffin had been opened.

　　The snake-girl pressed on, sensing his disbelief. “I know you doubt me, but I am almost certain she is the woman from the coffin.”

　　“Why are you so sure?” Qiwú asked.

　　“I saw her before—I was about a thousand years old then, newly human in form. The world was in chaos; humans turned to hide from war, snakes hid from hunters. I hid in the deep water and saw her by the coffin. I thought she was dead, but she looked alive, so I lingered. Later, the coffin somehow entered this blasted cave, and I’ve been trapped here ever since—how many years I don’t know.”

　　Qiwú’s feelings churned. The snake-girl’s cultivation was at least ten thousand years—if that was true, Ruoshui had been sealed in the coffin and sunk into the water many millennia ago. Who would have sealed her? For what purpose? Most unsettling, Qiwú had thoroughly investigated Ruoshui and found nothing remarkable on her—so whoever had sealed her must possess unfathomable power.

　　Ruoshui carried too many secrets; Qiwú knew nothing. The snake-girl was right: even without considering everything else, Ruoshui’s blood alone could bring endless slaughter. He could no longer be the one to shield her. What could he do?

　　The snake-girl continued: “There’s more. For years we survived trapped here, sustained by the water’s spirit qi. Four years ago the storm happened and the spirit soured. The vine-demon began to wither and had to drink human blood to survive; we wasted away day by day. But seeing her blood now, surely the vine’s withering is related to her emerging from the coffin.”

　　“If so,” she concluded, “it would be beneficial for you to remain near her. Please keep these matters secret.”

　　Qiwú looked at her with a pleading in his tone. He feared that if he died, the snake-girl might harm Ruoshui. He feared that if they escaped alive, Ruoshui would become a coveted treasure the world would covet.

　　“I will try,” the snake-girl said. “For the sake of having fought alongside you, I will do my best to keep her secret.”